A Soldier No More
by gallifyres
Summary: John Watson's seen it all. Too much of it, perhaps. When a trigger is pulled and his body falls, only the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper are left to deal with it and put the pieces back together.
1. Lost

_A/N: AU where John kills himself prior to his and Sherlock's meeting in "A Study in Pink". Here, Sherlock is called in to investigate the death. If you read my one-shot,_ Forgiveness Is A Beautiful Thing _, these scenes here are alluded to._

* * *

 **Part I: Lost**

"If a tree falls in a forest

and no one is around to hear it,

does it make a sound?"

-A philosophical thought

* * *

 **John Watson was done.**

 _Too much._

 _No more._

The words resounded through the soldier's mind, tumbling round and round until no other words were clear in his head except for the four. _Toomuchnomoretoomuchnomoretoomuchnomoretoomuchnomoretoomuchnomoretoomuch._

Shakily, he reached into his small rucksack. Since being invalidated from Afghanistan, he simply couldn't cope with being a civilian again. Once going out to the war zone, he had seen things that no man should ever see in his lifetime.

He remembered the time that he had failed to save the young girl in the surgery, and when her brother was brought in, succumbing to the eternal sleep not three minutes later.

He remembered watching as one of his fellow soldiers was fatally shot and he couldn't do anything to save her.

All of the people that he had unsuccessfully attempted to rescue from Death's cruel, cold, prying fingertips blinked in front of his eyes, one by one, in order. There was his mother, who fell to her end from a combination of physical abuse, cancer, and starvation; Harry, the dear sister that he lost to the drugs and alcohol he had tried so desperately for her to avoid; the civilians whose deaths he could remember as if it were yesterday; and each soldier and each comrade who didn't deserve to die so soon.

He recalled the eyes of the rebel who shot him directly in the shoulder. It isn't anything that you forget quickly- not the eyes filled with fear, rage, some regret, and an overwhelmingly deep amount of ethereal and eternal sadness. You never forget the tiniest hint of hesitation embedded in those eyes, the smallest glance of a face that expressed all of the meaning of _I'm sorry_. The moment before it happens, and feeling that moment stretch out for eternity.

You _never_ fail to remember being shot by a person with a power- with the emotion to move you like that.

The rebel's eyes mirrored his own now as he reached for the gun in the rucksack.

Even with the PTSD, he still kept the gun inside of his pack. Despite his therapist's warnings of dangerous flashbacks or shocks, the gun was always loaded and ready to be fired in case of an emergency.

In this case, his life (or possible lack of one) was the real emergency.

He weighed the gun in his hands, feeling the trigger and trying to understand exactly how it would feel if the finger just _slipped_ and the bullet was shot. Yet his decision rode on a tightrope, precariously dancing and tipping from one side to the other..

Coming to a decision, he ripped off a sheet from the notepad that sat on the hotel desk and scribbled down four simple sentences. _Make what they will of that,_ he thought with the slightest trace of humour.

So that fateful Friday, John Watson swung the gun up to the side of his head and pulled the trigger, closing his eyes to join the ones that he had failed to save.

 _No one heard his body fall to the ground that day._

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 _Reviews are appreciated._


	2. Found

**Part II: Found**

 **Sherlock Holmes was bored.**

This, unfortunately, was a rather common occurrence- it happened after long periods when Lestrade or any of the inspectors from the ridiculously boring and predictable Scotland Yard failed to bring a new case to his attention for some period of time.

He had just moved into 221B Baker Street on Wednesday, where the landlady, a woman named Mrs. Martha Hudson, had given him a special discount, seeing as he previously ensured the execution of her former husband in Florida. This was, as she repeatedly stated as she ushered him into his new flat and with a tin of biscuits, the least she could do to repay him.

As Sherlock laid in an armchair that Friday, hands arranged in an almost prayerful position, his mobile buzzed.

 _Found a case that you may be interested in. Pop in when you've got a minute -GL._

Sherlock scoffed at the text. Clearly, Graham or George or whatever his name was didn't understand that Sherlock never could "pop in", seeing as he had more interesting things to do.

Sherlock intently scanned the mobile, but then took a closer look at the text itself.

A _case_?

Realizing that his boredom was a more pressing issue rather than if Lestrade would cater to his direct wishes or not, Sherlock thumbed a quick reply, then threw the phone beside him, awaiting a reply.

 _What's the case about? -SH_

In a matter of seconds, Lestrade had responded.

 _Suicide of a man. We need to determine who he was and a possible motive for the death. -GL._

 _One of those poison suicides? -SH_

 _No. There was a gun involved. -GL_

 _I'll be there in a few. Don't let any of your idiots touch anything. -SH_

 _Where's the location? -SH_

 _Westminster. -GL_

Lestrade sent an address of a hotel, which Sherlock gave to the cabbie as he stepped into a sleek taxi, pulling his blue scarf around his neck.

* * *

"When did you find out about the suicide?" Sherlock questioned, sweeping his black Belstaff out of the victim's way.

Lestrade looked in his direction, away from some of his other officers that were desperately trying to grab his attention. "Uh, probably 'round 7:30 this morning. I think it's about... 11:00 now."

Accepting this, Sherlock pushed Anderson out of the way of his view of the body and began his round of observations.

 _-It's been about 3.5 hours, the blood has dried as normal._

 _-Gun is positioned near victim's hand: most likely a suicide._

 _-The shot from the gun was precise: he was familiar with a gun._

 _-Hair is buzzed military-style, so this man just recently returned from serving in the military._

 _-Tanned face but no tan above anywhere above the wrists. Conclusion: he's been abroad extremely recently, but not sunbathing. Most likely Iraq or Afghanistan, then._

 _-Probably a doctor or well trained health professional as there is no indication of drug use or smoking around hotel or in rucksack. A medical professional who could shoot a gun who was in the military in Afghanistan or Iraq? Aha. Army doctor, then._

 _-Was in good health prior to suicide. Clearly, then, he wasn't influenced by drugs._

He completed a few more deductions and was beginning to stand up and give Gavin the results, but Donovan passed near him, intentionally shoving against Sherlock's shoulder.

"You missed something, Freak," she called, holding up a small and neatly folded piece of paper.

Sherlock hid the slight offence that irritatingly came whenever she called him Freak and deftly snatched the sheet out of her hand. He looked at the four sentences written (rather hurriedly, if the handwriting gave any indication) upon it.

 _My name was John Watson._

 _But I have had too much._

 _I am no more._

 _John Watson is_ no more.

Considering this, Sherlock folded the note into its original position and snapped his fingers in Lestrade's face to get his attention.

"Pay attention, Lestrade, I'm not going to repeat this again. John Watson was recently invalidated from Afghanistan or Iraq- either one, doesn't matter, he's clearly been abroad but not for a vacation. He used to be an army doctor, seeing as he was in pretty good health, showing that he knew how to keep himself healthy, and the gunshot was precise- the man was good with firearms. Ties in with him being abroad recently and completely supports his haircut. No drugs were used in this case, and he wasn't a smoker either, judging by his fingers."

"And why did he kill himself?" prompted Lestrade.

Sherlock waved the note in Lestrade's face. "He probably felt too much guilt over the deaths that he may have been responsible for or the lives that he may have failed to save. _Too much? No more?_ Seemed like an indicator for seeing and mentally feeling responsible for deaths as a doctor. No close family or friends as he seemed to be alone. Why else would he be inside a dingy hotel like this? If he had someone that he was close to, he would have gone to their place instead- either that, or they would have provided him with financial support. There. Case solved."

Sherlock turned to exit the doorway, but then poked his head back into the hotel room. "Oh, and Lestrade, do bring the body to St. Bart's. I think that their pathologist will be useful in assisting me with disposing of it."

* * *

"What do you make of it, Molly?" Sherlock asked, staring intently at the petite pathologist.

Honestly, he was waiting for her to turn to him and blush, perhaps, but she simply stated in a rather flat tone, "What was his name, again?"

"Erm..." He racked his brain, trying to recall it. "John? Yes, John Watson."

Her face crumpled, and when she spoke (which wasn't for a few minutes), it was in a sad, soft, and reverent tone.

"I knew him, once."

Whatever Sherlock had expected, it certainly wasn't this.

"And…?" he said, rather curiously.

"We attended the same university together- here at Bart's. He was only a year ahead of my graduating class. I… I remember John. He always assisted me in my med work. Never heard anything of him after he graduated, but he did tell me and another friend of ours that he wanted to go in the military as a doctor. That he wanted to _save_ people."

Molly stared at the dead man's face, lost in memories. Sherlock nearly asked if she was in a relationship with John, but caught himself as he looked at her body language. _Friends, then. Just friends._

"But it seems as if he couldn't save himself," she finished, voice dropping off at the last syllable.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to say- how could he? He definitely wasn't the best individual to deal with human emotions. But Molly was sad, he could tell. The death of this Watson, whoever he was, had deeply affected her. His almost-friend relationship with her told his mind that he should do something- anything- to comfort Molly. _And in doing this,_ he thought, _I should probably show some kind of respect to the former soldier._

So the detective and pathologist stood together, with the doctor leaning her head gently against the consulting detective's shoulder, keeping a reverent silence as they both gazed at the body of the soldier who fought a war that raged both outside and within.

* * *

 _John Watson, M.D._

 _1977-2010_

 _Trop et pas plus, mes amis_

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 _A/N: This was born out of something that Traveler Of Many Lands tried to create for me for my birthday. However, I found it to be too depressing at the time. But now, I wanted something sad, so I wrote something sad! Go Maia!_

 _So if you liked it (or not), please favorite, follow, and_ _ **review**_ _! Reviews make me happy and are always appreciated._

 _*French for_ Too much and no more, my friends _._


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